“Dad, I just wanted you to be proud of me”: The story of a girl who grew up too soon.
When Emily was just six, her world split in two. On an ordinary evening, her father packed his bags and walked out of their flat—not for work, not to the shops, but for good. At the time, she didn’t understand the grown-up word “divorce.” She only knew that from that moment on, he never came back. Never hugged her. Never kissed the top of her head before bed. Never whispered, “I’m here.”
It might seem like a common story—ordinary, modern. But for one little girl, it was the end of the world, because she decided: it was her fault. She ate. She needed clothes. School would mean expenses. And with Mum losing her job, her poor dad couldn’t cope anymore… he was tired of carrying them both.
“Mum, if I eat less, will Dad come back? I can just have meals at school…” she whispered hopefully, her blue eyes searching her mother’s face.
Her mother pulled her close and wept—long and hard—while Emily ate less and less. But her father never returned.
First day of school. Year One. Emily in a crisp white blouse, a black pleated skirt, a little blazer, and two enormous bows like the dolls in shop windows. She stood before the mirror, thinking, *If Dad saw me now, he’d come back. Who could ever leave such a pretty daughter?*
Mum held her hand, a bouquet for the teacher in the other. Emily felt equal parts fear and joy, but neither could overshadow the desperate hope pounding in her chest: *Dad will come. He has to. Today of all days.*
“Emily, why do you keep looking around? Don’t worry, I’m right here,” Mum murmured.
But she wasn’t scared. She was searching—scanning the crowd for her father, with her eyes, her heart, her breath. She *knew* he was there. Maybe he just couldn’t see her. But she was right at the front—he *must* have spotted her!
When the assembly ended and the children filed into class, Emily bit her lip to keep from crying. She’d tried so hard—for nothing. Or had she? What if he *had* seen her but just didn’t approach?
“Is Dad waiting at home?” she asked on the walk back.
“I don’t know, love,” her mother said heavily.
Emily sprinted ahead, certain he’d be there. She flung open the door—and saw emptiness. Then, finally, she broke down.
Mum stroked her hair, murmuring that maybe work had kept him away. But she already knew the truth: he wouldn’t come. He hadn’t come when *she* went to him, pleading:
“James, I’m not asking for anything. But Emily *waits*. She *believes*. Just see her once. Talk to her.”
“See her?” He scoffed. “That’d mean bringing gifts, flowers… I’ve got no money. Don’t lie to the kid.”
“To hell with your money,” Emily’s mother hissed, slamming the door behind her.
Emily grew up—quiet, obedient, diligent. No tantrums, no complaints, no unnecessary questions. Just exhaustion from trying, *always* trying, to be good. Top marks, not for ambition, but because somewhere deep down, she thought: *If he hears how well I’m doing, he’ll come. Smile. Ruffle my hair. Say he’s proud.*
He never did.
“Mum, can we invite him to my birthday? I don’t want presents. Just him.”
Silence. Emily locked herself in her room and cried. She *knew*.
She left school with top honours. Prom night—a celebration that should’ve been her family’s pride. Dress fitted, grandparents visiting from the countryside. But two hours before, she sat on a bench outside her father’s building. She wanted to invite him. To *show* him. To hear just once: *”I’m sorry, love. I’m proud of you.”*
He stepped out, bag slung over his shoulder, gaze sliding past her.
“Dad!” she called. “It’s me! Emily!”
He turned. A beat.
“You’ve grown,” he said flatly.
“I finished school. Top of my year. I’m applying to Oxford—”
“I’ve got no money. Don’t get your hopes up.”
“I’m not after money… I wanted to invite you to prom.”
“And what’s in it for me?”
She ran. Tears choked her. On that street corner, alone, Emily realised: her childhood was over.
She graduated. Returned home—Mum was ill. Found work, met Daniel. Honest, kind. Married. Had a daughter, then another. The word *dad* was erased from her heart. Never spoken again.
Today, she’s thirty. A milestone. Saturday. The flat buzzes with laughter—Mum plays with her granddaughters, Daniel’s out fetching his parents. Emily finishes cooking.
The doorbell rings. She rushes to answer, expecting in-laws—but *he* stands there. Her father. Grey at his temples, older.
“Came to wish you happy birthday. Didn’t invite me to the wedding, though. Too cheap to feed your own dad? I’m getting on—you should help—”
“You’re too late, Dad. I waited for you *every day*. Prayed you’d show. Not my first day of school, not prom. You weren’t there. Now? I don’t *need* you. And don’t you dare guilt me. I didn’t invite you. Leave.”
“Not even a hello?”
“No.”
She shut the door.
He lingered. Reached for the bell—hesitated. Then the lift dinged. Cheerful voices spilled out—an older couple, a younger man laden with gifts.
“Here for us?” he asked.
“No… wrong floor.”
He took the stairs. Slowly. From above, laughter erupted:
“Happy birthday, sweetheart!”
The words pierced him. Too late. Everything lost. Everything gone.
